


What Others Only Catch a Glimpse of

by Ghostlymissions



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Artist Steve Rogers, Bottom Bucky, First Time, M/M, Oral Sex, Period-Typical Homophobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-01
Updated: 2016-03-01
Packaged: 2018-05-24 05:04:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6142381
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ghostlymissions/pseuds/Ghostlymissions
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"He didn’t allow himself to look anymore - couldn’t risk getting caught, didn’t want Bucky to ever know - but it was all he wanted to do, to memorize the lines of Bucky's face, the angles, trace them onto paper and keep it close. Bucky was the most beautiful person Steve had ever seen."</p><p>Or: Five times Steve drew Bucky.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What Others Only Catch a Glimpse of

### 1927: Age 9

When Steve drew, he never sketched people. That was the rule. Attempting to draw people just led to frustration when they didn’t turn out the way he had imagined, erasing and erasing the paper until it was worn thin, the image permanently warped. It led to embarrassment, when his mother saw the portrait of herself and pinned it on the wall, despite the fact her face was lopsided and her arm seemed to bend backwards at the elbow. And it led to fear, when he attempted to draw his father from the way his mother described him, but only a stranger appeared on the page.

Nothing good came out of drawing portraits. He learned that when he was young.

~~~~

The day was perfect for stick ball, warm but not muggy, with a gentle salt breeze blowing in off the docks. With the cool air came the smell of rotting fish and other decay, but after such a hot, stagnant summer, no one even noticed. Boys gathered on the street, waiting for enough numbers to make the game a real challenge, so Steve’s mother had taken one look out the window and then pushed him out the door. The sunshine and fresh air would do him some good, she had said, and the boys needed another player. Steve wasn’t so sure.

His hands felt clammy as he approached the group of boys on the corner. He hated himself for even trying, for even _wanting_ this. Most of them chatted away, ignoring Steve’s existence. One boy with tousled brown hair turned to Steve, mildly curious, but before he could open his mouth another one had stepped forward. It was Will, who constantly pushed Steve around at recess, kicked at the back of his chair and laughed at his wheezing and coughing fits. Immediately Steve knew this was a mistake.

“Whaddya want, Rogers?” Will asked. He pushed his curly blond hair back off his forehead, looked over his shoulder to the other boys with a smile, as if Steve couldn’t see.

“You guys playin’ stick ball?” Steve asked. He resisted the urge to shuffle his feet.

“Yep,” Will replied, and then continued to grin at Steve. The boys behind them tittered, and Steve felt his face flush.

Undeterred, he raised his chin. “Can I play?”

Will twirled the bat casually, as if considering the offer. He looked over his shoulder again, gestured to Steve with the bat.

“Anyone want him on their team?”. No one answered; some looked down at their feet, others just grinned and continued to watch Steve like they were waiting for a show. “Danny? Joe? James - you want him on your team?”.

More silence.

“Well,” Will said, turning back to Steve. “There ya have it. Teams are full.”

They weren’t — not even close to the right number — but there was nothing left to do, then, except nod and turn away. As Steve walked back to his building, he heard the other boys snickering behind him and felt his neck blush bright red. _‘Christ, what if he dropped dead halfway through the game?’_ he heard Will say to the gang. _‘I don’t wanna deal with that’._ The others laughed.

But when Steve returned to his apartment, his shoulders hunched and his eyes averted, his mother had stopped him at the door. She handed him a square of brown packing paper and a pencil, then grabbed Steve’s chin, tilted him to meet her face. 

“Don’t let ‘em win,” she said. “You were going to get some fresh air anyway, weren’t you?”

Which is how Steve found himself, sitting on the steps of the apartment complex, listening to the other boys immersed in their game. His ma was right, as always; the cool air felt nice as he breathed in deep, and he enjoyed the warmth of the sun on his face. Maybe he’d get some freckles and they would hide his pale, sickly skin. One could only hope.

Gripping the pencil in his tiny hands, Steve started with the usual: drawing the building across from him, filling in the laundry lines, the garbage, Mrs. Nguyen's balcony garden. Drawing calmed him, made him feel like the world was alright, like he was capable of doing something worthwhile in some small way. Steve's ma had mentioned art school when he was older, and the thought filled Steve with a warm glow.

Soon the sketch took on a mind of its own and became more cartoonish, a flight of fancy. Steve added faces to all the flowers, some yawning and bored, others ones happy and in conversation. He drew old Mr. Doyle as an owl, his feathers ruffled in irritation as he read the paper. Ms. Sara’s toddlers were ducklings, screeching as they played some made-up game. Then he drew a few balloons floating in the air, because why not.

Steve bit his lip as he looked over work, holding back a grin. He had left the entire left side of the sketch blank, an obvious piece of the puzzle missing. His eyes flitted to the boys in the middle of their game, yelling and arguing about the last play.

He couldn’t.

Could he?

The thought was irrelevant, however; Steve’s hand seemed to take on a mind of its own, sketching out one team as pigs and the other as rats. He gave Danny giant rodent teeth, had him gnawing on the bat instead of using it to play. Will was a pig, short and stout, his curly hair flopped over his forehead, squealing in fear as he ran between the players. The rest were scrabbling over each other, stupid and oafish, trying to reach the ball. The whole piece was vengeance, and god, it felt _good_.

Steve concentrated hard on the paper, lost in his own world as he filled in shadows, added buttons to clothes, then quickly sketched the lamppost on the corner. He planned to have one of the Rat players scurrying up the post - Michael, maybe - when a hand shot into his field of vision and snatched the paper off his lap.

Steve jumped to his feet, his hands already balled into fists.

It was Will, his grin wide and malicious, a crew of boys behind him. Apparently the game had ended some time ago. Most of the players had scattered, the rest bored and unwilling to go home, and Steve was an easy target. He couldn’t stop his heart from skipping a beat, knowing how this would go.

“Whatcha got here, Rogers?” Will asked. But when he glanced down at the paper his smile froze, his expression slowly morphing into something murderous. Steve only had a second to feel utter satisfaction before Will grabbed him by the shirt, pulled Steve up to his face.

“You think this is funny?” Will demanded. His breath smelled sickly sweet. “You’re really asking for it, Rogers”.

Steve could hear the other boys passing around the paper, angry murmurs as they picked themselves out of the crowd. There was no backing out of this one, Steve figured; he might as well go all in.

“You gotta admit” he croaked, his shirt twisted tight around his neck. “It’s pretty much a photograph”.

The fist came flying, knocking Steve square in the eye, his body falling back onto the pavement. Steve barely had time to scramble back before a foot stomped in the place he had been. Steve pulled back his arm, aimed for Will’s stomach, but his fist barely connected before hands grabbed at Steve, twisting his skinny arms behind his back as they pulled him upright, holding him in place. Another shove, another punch. Blood flooded Steve’s mouth, which he used to spit on Will’s clothes. He could do that much, at least.

Footsteps came pounding down the road, and Steve braced himself for some of the other boys in Will’s gang to appear. But instead, someone stepped between Will and Steve, blocking the next hit. It was the boy with brown hair, who had noticed Steve earlier. Now he glanced over his shoulder, taking in the bloody clothes and the newly swollen eye. Steve glared back, and then flailed a leg out to kick at the boy. The hit was ignored.

“Lay off,” the boy said, turning back to Will. “He’s had enough”.

Will shoved at the boy, but it was no use; he was at least an inch taller, and his stance was strong.

“He hasn’t learned his lesson,” Will spat.

Steve watched as the boy shrugged, completely nonchalant. “Okay,” he said. But as soon as Will started to smile, the boy’s fist flew straight into Will’s face. “But I’m on his side”.

The fight went quickly after that, just the boy and Will, more of a shove-and-tug battle in the end. The rest of the boys watched warily, unsure of what to do. For once Steve felt an odd camaraderie with them; he’d never had someone stand up for him before. Not once.

The boy won, shoving Will away from him, who was scraped up from the pavement, his face splotched red and sweaty.

“Beat it,” the boy said. He looked back at Steve, and the other boys relinquished their hold without any other prompt. Steve stumbled forward, feeling a bit dizzy as the blood rushed back.

“You’re gonna regret this, Barnes,” Will said, but he looked Steve in the eye instead. Then he and the other boys wandered off, careful not to run.

Barnes stood his ground until they disappeared around a corner. Then looked down at his ripped shirt, touched the back of his hand to his split lip, catching his breath. Steve felt frozen in place, unsure of what to do. Maybe the fight had nothing to do with him, like something had been brewing between Barnes and Will for a while; maybe Steve was just a catalyst, and he should make a quiet exit. He shuffled his feet.

“Ugh,” Barnes muttered. “My ma’s gonna kill me.” Then he turned to Steve with a toothy grin. “That was fun, though. Why were you fightin’ him, anyway?”

Hesitantly Steve reached down and picked up the brown paper, but then handed it to Barnes with his chin raised, defiant. He took it from Steve with a raised eyebrow, looking comically older, then looked down at the art. He studied it for a minute, the lines of his eyebrows drawn. Then he laughed, loud and long.

“You sure know how to pick a fight, don’tcha?” he said. His eyes were sparkling, and he came around to stand next to Steve. “Which one am I?”

Steve shrugged, and pointed to a few of the faceless rats playing in the background. Barnes had been on Danny’s team, but Steve hadn’t paid much attention to him; he knew they went to the same school, but Barnes had never been part of the bullies.

“You weren’t on my list,” Steve said. Barnes laughed again, and Steve couldn’t help the flutter in his stomach. But he couldn’t stop himself from adding, “But I can take care of myself”.

“One against five? Yeah, okay,” Barnes retorted. But he sat down on the curb, and after a moment, Steve carefully followed. 

Steve watched him examine the sketch for a long while, crookedly smiling despite his split lip. Barnes' freckles only emphasized his blue eyes, his skin golden from the sun. He was one of the popular boys, Steve knew that much, so he didn’t get why he was even talking to Steve.

“This is real good,” Barnes finally said, handing the paper back to Steve. “I swear I can pick out everyone’s face from the animal!”.

Steve smiled for the first time, and then flinched at the twitch in his swollen eye. Barnes noticed it and grinned, a fresh drop of blood falling to the pavement. They both laughed at their injuries, then, giggling as they winced. After they caught their breath, Barnes stuck out his hand, just like adults do.

“I’m James Barnes,” he said. “But my friends call me Bucky”.

“Steve Rogers,” he said in reply. The term ‘friend’ caused a flood of warmth in Steve’s stomach, made him want to bite his lip in excitement. He had never had a friend before, but he wasn’t about to tell Bucky that.

It turned out that he didn’t have to, however, when Bucky replied, “Yeah, I know”.

They sat in silence for a few minutes, Bucky repeatedly touching his split lip to check if it was still bleeding. Finally he looked over at Steve, and for the first time seemed anxious.

“Sorry for not picking you to be on the team.”

Steve shrugged. It was nothing new; he knew how it went, and Bucky had made up for it, anyway. “It’s okay, I just wanted to be outside".

“Yeah, it’s nice out,” Bucky said, passing over the obvious lie and saving Steve the embarrassment. After a moment, he added “I won, so tomorrow after school I’ll be Captain and I’ll pick you first, okay?”

Steve’s eyes shot up to meet Bucky’s, searching for the trick, the lie. But Bucky only stared back at him, his blue eyes clear and honest. It would be the first time Steve would ever play stick ball, and Steve prayed that the weather would be nice, his asthma wouldn’t act up, that Barnes was telling the truth.

“Really?” Steve asked carefully.

“Yeah”. Bucky said, then grinned toothily at Steve. “I know you can handle a fight”.

Steve’s fingers twitched against the paper; he wanted to capture that smile forever.

### 1935: Age 17

Steve studied the metal structure balanced on the end of the couch for a long moment, angling his hand this way and that on the page as he tried to find somewhere to start. Bucky had brought the scrap over after work; some half-melted, twisted piece of metal he had pulled from the factory after his shift. There were splotches of red and blue paint scattered across it, a bit of rust on either end to add some texture. He had thrown it at Steve as soon as he opened the door, gave a satisfied smile as Steve fumbled for it.

“Perfect, right?” Bucky had said, walking into the small living area. He ran his hand through his wet hair. “Let’s see you try n’ draw that one. It’ll be good practice for art school”.

“I can’t even afford art school,” Steve started, but Bucky had rolled his eyes and flopped on the floor, pulling his book out from under his arm as he went.

Now Steve listened to Bucky’s breathing as he napped on the rug, his book forgotten on his chest, still open to the page. He couldn’t help but feel a wash of shame pass over him; they were supposed to go to the pictures when Bucky got off work, meet one of the girls that Bucky had been wooing for days. She was bringing her cousin, a shy girl with glasses that Bucky wore was a perfect match for Steve. But Steve had an asthma attack when moving a box of canned corn the day before, one so terrible that his lips had turned blue and he had fallen to his knees, and Bucky had cancelled his date like it was nothing. Like he hadn’t been talking about the girl every night. When Steve had protested, Bucky had only shook his head, declared Saturday a lazy day despite his eight hour shift. _“I could use the break, anyway,_ ” Bucky had said. _“Gotta build my strength for my date on Sunday”_. Steve wasn’t invited to that date; he knew what it meant.

The dusk light filtered in through the window, warm yellows and soft pinks angled against the wall. Steve tried to ignore Bucky napping, tried to be good, and he idly sketched the piece because Bucky had brought it for him. But he couldn’t help his eyes sliding over to Bucky sprawled out on the floor, couldn’t help but greedily memorize Bucky’s face. He took in the smudge of grease that Bucky had missed just under his chin, watched how his long eyelashes fluttered in sleep. There was a bit of skin revealed where Bucky’s shirt had ridden up, a smattering of hair leading down under his belt that made Steve shiver. While Steve stayed small, Bucky was becoming longer and leaner, his arms and chest filling out from working at the factory. Seventeen looked good on Bucky. It made Steve ache.

He didn’t allow himself to look anymore - couldn’t risk getting caught, didn’t want Bucky to ever know - but it was all he wanted to do, to memorize the lines of his face, the angles, trace them onto paper and keep them close. Bucky was the most beautiful person Steve had ever seen.

The light suddenly shifted then, a streetlamp switched on outside the building. It became brighter and more yellow, illuminating a triangle from the window that washed soft and serene over Bucky’s features. It highlighted his tan skin, the dark stubble barely emerging on his cheeks, the still-damp tendrils of his hair from his shower earlier. And even though Steve knew he shouldn’t — the Rule was still in place, always was — he couldn’t help himself this time. He quietly flipped a page in his sketchbook, his heart beating slightly faster at the blank sheet, before he started to draw.

He had never drawn Bucky before; not like this, anyway. Sometimes Bucky would ask for a caricature, a cartoon of him or his sisters, and Steve would always comply, anything to make Bucky laugh and smile at Steve with those bright eyes. But he had never done something so realistic. It shocked him how easy it was. Everything about Bucky was familiar; his shape, the angle of his nose, the scar on his arm from some fight they had as kids. He took time to carefully sketch Bucky’s full mouth, the lines of his jaw and neck. Goosebumps crawled across Steve’s skin. He shifted uncomfortably on the couch as his cock filled. It wasn’t anything like the blue drawings Bucky had shown him (grinning at Steve's deep blush), but it felt close. Like he was touching Bucky in some intimate, shameful way, drawing something from his own desire.

He shifted again, squeezing his thighs together, but this time the piece of scrap metal teetered off the edge of the couch before crashing to the ground. Steve and Bucky both startled badly, a pencil mark skittering off the edge of Steve’s page, Bucky’s book sliding to the ground.

Bucky coughed, lifting himself up on his elbows as he squinted at Steve, confused.

“Sorry,” Steve said. His hand covered the sketch. “But it was the only thing that would wake you. You sleep like the dead”.

Bucky huffed in reply. “What time is it?” he asked, sitting up and rubbing at his eyes with his forefinger and thumb.

“Just after six,” Steve said. His heart was pounding in his throat as he shifted his legs again, slowly closing the sketchbook in his lap. “My ma won’t be home until nine”.

Bucky stretched, cracking his back and neck, and Steve had to look away before he had another asthma attack.

“I’m starving - let’s go down to the automat and get somethin’ to eat,” Bucky said. “I’ll buy”.

“Yeah, okay”. Steve placed the sketchbook on the coffee table. He groaned as he stood up; sitting in the same place for too long caused sharp aches in his back and knees, but he doubted his stretching looked anything like Bucky’s. He watched as Bucky wandered over to the metal, picking it up and examining the scrap with a small smile.

“You draw it?” he asked.

Steve shrugged. “A little. The shape was pretty difficult to get”.

Bucky hummed noncommittally as he placed the metal by the door, a reminder to take it back to the junkyard later. He wandered over to the sketchbook on the table, reaching for it with a smile. Cold fear ran through Steve; he knew the sketch was a terrible idea. The Rule existed for a _reason_. Bucky could never see it, could never know. He frantically grabbed the book out of Bucky’s hand.

“It’s, um, it’s not very good,” Steve said. “I was going to erase it later”.

Bucky looked at Steve, his eyebrows drawn. Because Steve had never hidden a sketch from Bucky, no matter how silly or badly drawn; he had always let him flip through the pages of his sketchbooks whenever he wanted. They didn’t hold secrets from each other.

It was clear that Bucky didn’t understand, his smile laced with confusion and reassurance. “I’m sure it’s good, Steve,” he said. He reached for the sketchbook again, but Steve blocked him. They stared at each other.

“It’s just…” Steve said, his mind racing for some excuse, for something to say. “After I finished with the metal, I was doodling”. He felt his face flush, hated the way it crept up his neck and ears. “It’s nothing, just, y’know. Daydreaming”.

Bucky studied his face, his eyes flicking to the sketchbook and back. Steve’s heart pounded, tripping over itself in its fear, but then Bucky grinned. He dove around Steve and grabbed the book before Steve could even react.

“Ooo boy,” Bucky laughed as Steve jumped around him, trying to get it back. “Did you draw a girl in here, Stevie? I bet it’s Mary - I knew you were sweet on her!”.

Steve shoved him, jumped up despite his bad knees to make a grab for the sketch. “Come on, Buck, it’s dumb” he tried, but Bucky wasn’t listening. So when Bucky lifted the book straight over his head, opened it and started to flip through, Steve stepped away from him. There was nothing he could do. He could see the train wreck happening but couldn’t even look away, even as the wave of nausea rolled through him. He was going to lose Bucky and it was his fault. His stupidity.

“You don’t have to hide it,” Bucky was saying as he flipped through the pages. “I bet I could talk to her friend Anne, and we could all go to…”. He trailed off as he found the sketch.

Steve’s cheeks burned with shame as he watched Bucky’s expressions. The first pause, where his smile fell away and that sparkle left his eyes. Confusion followed, like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing; his brow furrowed further, his lips parting as he brought the book down in front of him. And finally, as Bucky’s eyes widened and he glanced up at Steve: fear. It was Steve’s heart in a sketch, and Bucky could easily see that, could always read the emotions behind Steve's artwork better than anyone else. And Bucky was scared of him.

Steve took a shaky breath. “It’s just a sketch,” he whispered. “I was only sketching. Buck, I…”

Bucky closed the book and put it down on the coffee table like it burned him. He was still staring at Steve, his face pale, his expression unreadable to Steve for the first time ever. Seven years of friendship, ruined because of Steve’s wrongness, his darkest secret exposed.

“I won’t do it again,” Steve said, and he meant every word. “Buck, I won’t. I would never… you know I…”

Bucky approached him cautiously, and Steve was so sure Bucky was going to hit him. It had never happened before, but he would take the punch without a fight. It would be deserved, he knew, for drawing something that wasn’t his to touch, to even look at in that way. When Bucky grabbed Steve’s shoulders, pulled him so close that he could feel Bucky’s breath on his face, he couldn’t help but flinch in fear. But Bucky stopped there, breathing raggedly. A long pause, and then:

“That’s how you see me?” Bucky asked, his voice quiet.

It was Steve’s secret, but he could never lie to Bucky about this, no matter the consequences.

“Yeah,” he whispered.

They stood like that, with Bucky gripping Steve so hard his knuckles were white, his breath quick against Steve’s face. Steve could feel the trembles in Bucky’s frame, and when he glanced at Bucky’s face he saw his eyes were screwed shut. There was a long moment of trembling, awkward tension before Bucky lurched forward.

And they were kissing.

It was a shock right down Steve’s body, Bucky’s mouth so hard against his that Steve could barely feel his lips, all teeth and jaw. It felt angry, like Bucky was only giving him this in retaliation, and no, _no_ , that wasn’t at all what he wanted. Steve tried to pull away, but then Bucky’s hand was cupping the back of his neck, a quiet noise escaping his throat. When he gasped for air, he felt Bucky’s mouth search for his lip.

“It’s okay,” Bucky breathed shakily against his mouth. “It’s okay”.

Then the kiss became softer, more gentle, Bucky guiding Steve’s mouth with his own. It was everything Steve had ever dreamed of, even more than that. His knees shook, and when he crumpled to the couch Bucky followed him, leaning over his body. Heat traveled down Steve’s spine. 

It was his first kiss and he had no idea what he was doing; he couldn’t get enough air, couldn’t move his lips properly, made strange wheezing sounds when Bucky’s tongue lightly touched against his own. But Bucky seemed to understand, breaking away to nose at Steve’s jaw, his neck. Steve shivered as he felt Bucky press hard against his leg, grinding down.

“Buck,” Steve whispered. He was desperate, grabbing Bucky’s face again to kiss him again, to suck on his lower lip. He was terrified of how much he needed this, needed Bucky.

“Yeah,” Bucky replied raggedly. His hand slid down and touched Steve through his pants, then he buried his face in Steve’s neck when Steve moaned. Like it was too much for him, too, and god, that _did_ things to Steve.

They moved together on the couch, Bucky pressed over Steve just barely, holding himself up by his elbows. Steve was lost in the little noises Bucky made, whimpers and gasps and choked off sounds. He gave up on kissing, his breath too uneven, and dragged his mouth around Bucky’s collarbone, unbuttoning Bucky’s shirt as he went. He smelled like clean sweat, like salt and the iron of the factory, and Steve was _allowed_ to lean in close, to inhale greedily, to lick and touch. It made Steve throb, so close to coming. God, he wanted Bucky closer, wanted their clothing gone, but he was too nervous to try. He contented himself with pulling Bucky’s hips closer, the pressure so good it made Steve cry out, overwhelmed.

At that Bucky stuttered against Steve and made a strangled gasp, his body tight and suddenly still. Steve could only clutch at Bucky’s shoulders as he arched, following him, the heat unlike anything he’d ever felt.

They lay together panting, curled up on the couch, trading soft, barely there kisses. Bucky’s hand drifted under Steve’s shirt and rubbed idly at his chest. Steve was afraid to speak, as if the moment would be broken if he opened his mouth, terrified that Bucky would change his mind and decide that no, this wasn’t for him. But Bucky continued to lay there with Steve pulled close to his chest, his expression vulnerable but open, always open. They watched each other, a conversation without words. A new, shared secret.

Steve’s breathing was almost back to normal when Bucky spoke, his voice hoarse.

“You have to destroy that sketch. It’s too…” he trailed off, flinched a little.

Steve knew. “Yeah,” he croaked back. “Yeah, right now”.

It hurt, as he ripped up the sketch in front of Bucky, who bit his lip as he watched. It was a beautiful image that deserved to be kept, but Steve knew it had to be done, that the sketch never should have existed in the first place. Even if it led to this. 

Afterwards Bucky disappeared down the hall for a long time, quiet in the bathroom. Steve was on the verge of a panic attack when the door finally opened, but Bucky only walked to his coat that was hanging on the rack and pulled out his book of matches. He took the ripped up pieces of paper to the sink, struck a match, watched as the flames turned the paper to black ash. That hurt, too, but Steve understood. Bucky touched Steve’s arm gently, bumped his nose against Steve’s temple, and then left.

Bucky still went on his date on Sunday. Steve tried to understand.

### 1943: Age 24

“You got somewhere to be, Steven?”

Steve startled, stumbling off the ladder and smoothing his apron as he faced his boss. It was the fourth time he had been caught staring at the clock, wishing the hand to move a little faster.

“No, sir,” he said, his ears flushed.

Mr. Dahey stared at him through his grey bushy brows. He huffed, then fixed his rolled shirt sleeves. “Well get movin’, then. We still have four more carts to get through”.

Steve nodded, turning back to his work as he stocked the shelves. It was only four-thirty; Bucky’s train wasn’t even arriving until five, and he’d probably want to see his ma and sisters, first. But it had been over a _year_ , an entire year of Bucky overseas, and Steve missed him so much he ached. Letters had been short and infrequent, often just a checked box saying that Bucky was alive and doing well. That should have been enough, yet Steve still thought about Bucky every day, every hour, hoping he was truly okay.

And now Bucky was coming home.

The telegraph had been short and sweet, arriving at the Barnes’ only yesterday morning. Mrs. Barnes had begrudgingly walked to Steve’s tenement housing, shown him the letter only as a promise to Bucky before he left that she would keep Steve notified. And Steve had gripped the yellowed page, reading it over and over until the information sunk in: Bucky had been in the US for a month, doing some kind of additional training. He had been promoted to Sergeant, and would be coming home until he received his new orders. Steve was as terrified as he was excited: was Bucky injured? Did he look the same? What kind of special training required him to ship back to the US — what was he involved in?

Steve even cancelled his planned trip to the Recruitment Office that morning, just in case they chose him this time. It could wait, for the first time ever: he needed to see Bucky even more, couldn’t take a single risk. He glanced at the clock again, biting his lip. Four-forty.

“Go.”

Steve glanced over at Mr. Dahey, who was waving his arm at the door. Steve flushed again, started to put the cans on the shelves with renewed vigor, but Mr. Dahey just rolled his eyes.

“Go get ready for your date,” he said. “You need to clean up! Girls want a respectable fella. You can come in early tomorrow and finish this up - six A.M., Steven!”.

Steve didn’t even bother to correct him as he raced out the door. It was kind of true, anyway.

~~~~

It was almost eight, and Bucky still hadn’t arrived. Steve paced his tiny apartment, five steps, back and forth. Bucky would be home almost three hours by now, in _Brooklyn_ , so close that Steve could touch him. Yet he hadn’t shown up.

It took everything in Steve not to grab his coat and sprint to the Barnes’ home; they needed time with Bucky, too, and Steve showing up gasping for breath would only put a damper on the celebration. He wouldn’t be surprised if Mrs. Barnes took one look at him and slammed the door in his face. So he had showered (then washed his face and hands again, just in case) and tidied the apartment. Now all he could do was wait.

But anxiety set in as eight passed and the clock hand agonizingly inched towards nine. Steve sat on the couch, trying to read, but his leg wouldn’t stop jittering the book. What if Bucky didn’t want to see him? It was a ridiculous concept, he knew that, but the thought kept creeping into his mind. Bucky had army friends now, men that had enlisted together, fought alongside each other — a shared life experience that created an impossibly close bond. Maybe Bucky didn’t want to see his old friend, wanted to leave Steve behind, especially now that he was a Sergeant and Steve was still stocking shelves. It’s not like he had sent Steve any letters or even told Steve that he was coming home. Maybe he just wanted to spend time with the soldiers, go dancing, meet some girls and-

A knock at the door.

Steve’s heart leapt. He dropped the book and raced over, fumbling with the lock in his desperation.

And Bucky was there.

God, he looked the same, just the same. Sure, his hair was a little longer, worn more natural than he used to, with hardly any product slicking it back. He was more tan and far broader in the shoulders, wearing his old civilian clothing that looked almost childish on him now. But there were no wounds, no missing limbs, not even a scar. His eyes still sparkled, with that half smile on his face like he knew something you didn’t. He was still Bucky.

“Geez,” Bucky said, ruffling his own hair. “Are you gonna let me in, or what?”

Steve stumbled back, letting Bucky into the apartment. Bucky took the door from Steve, closed it, locked it.

“Buck,” Steve finally wheezed out. “Bucky, hi, are you-“

But before he could finish Bucky had pulled him close, tucking his face in Steve’s hair as he let out a shuddering breath. Steve pressed his face against Bucky’s shoulder and squeezed his arms tight around him in reply, feeling new muscles bunching as they moved. Bucky’s hands clenched at his back, over and over, tracing his twisted spine, his shoulders, his arms. 

They stood together for a long moment, just breathing each other in; Steve heard Bucky breathe his name, but that was all. Any lingering fears about Bucky not wanting Steve diminished in an instant. This was everything, home and safety wrapped up in the familiar smell of Bucky, that salty scent. He turned his face further into Bucky’s neck.

“Are you okay?” Steve quietly asked.

Bucky chuckled. “Yeah,” he said, pulling back from Steve with a smile, a hand kept on his hip. “Yeah, Stevie, I’m alright. It’s nice to be home”.

And Steve couldn’t stop himself from lifting up, pressing his lips against Bucky’s, needing to taste. For a moment he was afraid Bucky would pull away, that he had found God in the trenches, but Bucky just made that soft throaty sound in reply, his mouth opening immediately, letting Steve take.

“Can you spend the night?” Steve whispered when they pulled away to breathe.

Bucky’s eyes flicked to the windows, making sure the curtains were drawn ( _always_ , Steve always made sure) before resting his forehead against Steve’s. “I got no other plans”.

Steve had so many questions that he was tripping over his tongue in his haste, sometimes not knowing where to start. But Bucky was patient, laying on the bed next to Steve, a hand always on him, stroking his skin under his clothing or tapping out a random rhythm. Some questions Bucky answered in length - he talked about his training, laughed about the guys in his division, his hand waving around as he tried to explain the cities of Europe he had seen. He grinned when Steve asked how long he’d be home - a couple weeks at least, plenty of time - and Steve could see the pride in his face when he talked about his promotion.

Others questions, however, caused Bucky to quiet. He would answer vaguely, his eyes distant, remembering something that was likely best left forgotten. Sometimes he’d flinch at something invisible, still so real in his own thoughts. He purposely avoided any questions about why he was home, staring resolutely at his feet. Steve would apologize then, for wanting to know so much. Bucky’s letters were never long enough.

“It’s war, Steve,” Bucky said. “Nothin’ to write home about”.

“You won’t have to soon,” Steve replied, his shoulders squared. “The army needs more men”.

Bucky groaned, thunked back against the pillow. “Aww, you’re _not_ still doing that! They’ll catch you and-“

“They’ll accept me soon enough,” Steve interrupted. “And then I’ll be over there with you”.

Bucky didn’t respond to that, only searched Steve’s face with dark eyes. After a moment he leaned over Steve, switched off the light before laying back and pulling Steve on top of him. Warm hands slid under Steve’s shirt.

“C’mere”.

And then Steve got to explore Bucky with his mouth, relearn every new muscle. He took his time: unbuttoning Bucky’s shirt and kissing the exposed skin as he went, tracing his tongue down Bucky’s chest, nosing at the hair there. He gently bit a nipple just to make Bucky’s back arch. Frantic hands tugged at Steve’s pants, traced his bony hips as Bucky urged him back up, licking into his mouth briefly before he nuzzled behind Steve’s ear.

“You’re the same,” Bucky murmured.

That was supposed to be Steve’s line. He wasn’t sure why he would change -- it wasn’t like he was the one overseas -- but Bucky said it with such reverence and awe that Steve let it go, turned his head to kiss Bucky again, warm and soft. Then he travelled back down, closing his eyes and losing himself in Bucky’s body, in the soft sounds he made.

Steve hooked his thumbs into Bucky’s briefs and pulled them down, kissing as he went. He always loved this; loved how Bucky couldn’t stop squirming, his legs twitching against the sheets, his hands flexing at Steve’s shoulders. Steve loved to grind against the bed as Bucky whimpered, stared down at Steve with dilated pupils, breathing wetly. Even if Steve couldn’t hold his breath for very long, he could lick at Bucky’s length, drive him insane by sucking gently at the lip. But he had barely started when Bucky’s hands were scrabbling under his armpits, dragging him upwards with a pained groan.

“Wait,” Bucky said, then stood up and left the bedroom, tugging his pants off as he went. Steve barely had time to pull his own clothes off before Bucky returned, a small tin in his hand. He shyly handed it to Steve, averting his gaze as he crawled on the bed, knees under him. Steve shivered with want. Bucky rarely asked for this.

He ran his hand down Bucky’s back, smoothed away the goosebumps as he kissed his spine. The lid scraped open quietly, Steve slicking his fingers. He went slow, so careful -- it had been a year, after all -- rubbing against Bucky’s hole before pushing one finger inside. His cock dripped at every noise Bucky made, how he reached his hand back to quietly ask for more, for another. It made him tremble, knowing how much Bucky trusted him. Soon Bucky was pushing back against three fingers, his head under his arms as he moaned against the pillow. “Steve”.

Steve took a shaky breath. He slicked himself with the lightest of strokes, afraid of coming too fast, of not giving Bucky what he was asking for. The pressure when he pushed inside was so good, so intense that Steve had to squeeze his eyes, count to ten. Twenty. His knees trembled, threatening to give out. Bucky made a hurt sound and Steve slowed even more, waited until Bucky relaxed before even moving.

Not for the first time, Steve wished they could be louder, wished he could whisper in Bucky’s ear how good this was, how much he missed them. But Bucky knew; he had to know. 

They found their rhythm quickly, Bucky grabbing at Steve’s bony thigh to pull him closer, to ask him to go faster. Steve fought to control his breathing as he leaned over Bucky, tried to make it good for him. A slight angle of his hips caused Bucky to groan too loud, then shiver and tuck his head further down, and Steve grinned, kept that pace. He reached around and took Bucky’s slick cock in his grip, twisted in the way he knew Bucky liked.

It only took a few strokes before Bucky tensed, his fingernails digging into Steve’s thigh as he came, breathing harshly against the pillow. And Steve finally let go, shuddering against Bucky’s back as he spurted inside of him. Bucky’s hand flailed and grabbed his, squeezing tight.

Like always, Steve barely had time to pull out before Bucky was turning over to pull Steve to him, Steve’s back to Bucky’s chest, making sure his heart remained steady as they calmed down. Bucky idly mouthed at Steve’s ear as they settled, tangling their hands together. They both cast out their senses, listening to Steve's neighbours, seeing if anyone had heard. But there was nothing.

Steve couldn’t help but turn over after a minute and reach down, pressing his fingers gently against Bucky’s swollen rim. Bucky made a small hiss, but he spread his legs slightly, let him touch. A small amount of come trickled out when Steve pressed his thumb in, and Steve bit his lip; he loved that, how it made him feel like he _owned_ a part of Bucky in some way, even though he didn’t, would never even suggest it. But if Bucky knew Steve’s thoughts, they didn’t bother him any — he huffed a laugh at Steve and leaned down for another kiss.

Christ, Steve had missed him so much. He didn’t know how he could say goodbye again, not after knowing what Brooklyn felt like without Bucky in it.

It was Steve’s turn to get up and get a wet cloth; even after a year, he remembered. When he returned to the room, Bucky had pulled Steve’s sketchbook out from under the bed, was flipping through it with interest. Steve crawled over and wiped Bucky down as he examined each sketch, asking about some of the more abstract ones.

“You have to tell me about everything,” Bucky said. “I wanna know what I missed”.

And Steve tried -- tried to remember everything in a year, all the moments that seemed dull and boring without Bucky to share them. It had to be past midnight, but the high of having Bucky home made Steve restless, not wanting to waste a second. Bucky held his gaze throughout each story, smiling and listening intently, like every word Steve said was important. Like every insignificant thing he did _mattered_ , Bucky’s eyes bright and inquisitive.

When Steve started to get that drawing itch, Bucky somehow knew, always did. He handed the book to Steve with a small smile, shifted back as Steve grabbed his nubby pencil from the nightstand. Bucky watched Steve as he drew, meeting his eyes like a challenge whenever Steve glanced at him. It was nothing revealing, almost everything in shadow — just the outline of Bucky’s face illuminated by the lamp, his expressive eyes as they stared at Steve, his lips quirked upwards in a self-conscious half smile. He drew down to Bucky’s chest and stopped there, the rest faded and dark, hiding his nudity. It didn’t take long, and Steve flipped the book to show Bucky when he was finished.

Bucky took the book from him, traced the sketch with his fingers as he shifted to move beside Steve again. They stared at the page together. It was the Bucky that only Steve ever saw (at least, he hoped), the quiet beauty of his best friend. He was the only person that Steve even _wanted_ to draw, the only exception to the Rule. 

“Let me keep this one,” Steve said quietly. “Please, Buck”.

But Bucky only shook his head. “And add to that arrest record? Not a chance”.

Another match was struck.

The next day Bucky came home with a new box of pencils, their fresh wood scent close to euphoric.

###  1944: Age 25 

Steve didn’t draw much during the war. There just wasn’t enough time, for one: after forming the Howlies, it felt like they were always in the field, on missions that required a hand on the trigger at all times. Plus, most papers were used for reports and important intel, and Steve would never ruin them with immature doodles.

But more than that, every move Steve made was recorded (‘for the history books!’ the media men would exclaim), and Steve had to be vigilant with what he left behind. He waived away any pleas from Dernier and Dugan to draw pinups ( _“Not very proper for Captain America, fellas”_ ). Occasionally he’d draw cartoons for the guys — quick little caricatures, light and fun — but never people, and never in the field. That was too intimate. He found himself at a bar once, sketching on the napkin without thought, but as the lines connected and Peggy’s curvy figure formed, Steve crumpled up the paper with a red face, ashamed.

But it was okay — Steve finally had everything he wanted, so there wasn’t much need for daydreaming scribbles. A healthy body, Bucky at his side, fighting in the war together…there was so much to _do_ , so many possibilities that he couldn’t sit in once place. Even when he had the chance, he never knew what to draw, where to start. Life was suddenly vast and endless and insane, and Steve loved every minute of it.

Except Bucky was different, on this second trip overseas. More solemn and not prone to laughter, but more lines around his eyes regardless. He was harsher in his speech, hardly ever joined the men on their journeys into town to drink and dance. Steve caught him more than a few times staring off into space, his eyes flicking slightly as if he was re-living something over and over, unable to let it go. But the field changed men, Steve knew, and besides, he was still _Bucky_. Still smelled like him (better, now that Steve’s senses had improved), even if there was a metallic undertone to his scent. Still stayed close, even if his lips pressed together tightly as he looked over Steve’s new body. He was still _there_ , by Steve’s side every step of the way. And that was enough.

Their moments alone were rare, grabbed quickly and without warning: shivering against each other as they hid behind a tree, Bucky roughly shoving Steve against the bark, dropping to his knees like he was desperate for it. That was new; there was more roughness now that Steve could take it, Bucky shoving him this way and that, pressing his full weight into Steve. They were finally equal, and it seemed that Bucky wanted to take full advantage.

But sometimes Bucky would sneak into Steve’s tent late at night, press up against his body and tuck his head into Steve’s neck, just breathing for a while. Eventually his hand would slide down, under Steve’s army pants to grip his cock, kissing into Steve’s mouth to smother his gasps, but he’d shift away when Steve tried to return the favour. 

Sometimes he didn’t want to be touched at all, and Steve tried to understand.

~~~~

Steve’s hand ached as he signed off on his last report for the evening. He stretched, checked the clock on the desk. It was past ten. The men were still drinking in the downstairs pub, celebrating after a successful infiltration of a HYDRA base; Steve could hear their laughter even floors above, the music bouncing off the cobblestone streets.

He glanced around his private quarters: it came with a bathroom that had hot water, a large bed and desk, and a bolt on the door that Steve kept unlocked, waiting. He had caught Bucky’s eye before going upstairs, but maybe Bucky was stuck down there and couldn’t get away.

Or maybe he just didn’t want to be with Steve.

Steve brushed that thought away.

He was just moving to get ready for bed when there was a soft tapping. A pause. Then the door creaked open, Bucky slipping inside. He stood at the entrance for a long moment, glancing around at the decor before raising an eyebrow at Steve. The room was frivolous, far more ornate than either of them could have ever imagined back home, filled with useless decorations that only existed to showcase its wealth. Being here made Steve feel _weird_ , like he was doing something illegal.

“The government insisted,” he groaned. He flopped back on the bed, his legs dangling.

Bucky laughed. “Yeah, I bet”. Then he hunched in on himself, suddenly unsure, like the weight of the luxurious room had just kicked in. He tapped his foot against the floor and dislodged some mud from his boot. “D’you want me to go?”

“What? No,” Steve said. He sat up quickly. “Why would you think that?”

Bucky gave Steve a look, like he was being purposely daft. “Carter’s only a floor down. I saw her leave around the same time you did, hours ago. If you want some privacy I can-“

“No,” Steve breathed, pushing himself off the bed, grabbing Bucky by his belt. “You know I don’t want that”.

It only made sense, then, to kiss away the frown on Bucky’s mouth, to show him without words exactly how Steve felt on the matter. He pulled at Bucky’s lip, licking into his mouth and tasting smoke until Bucky gave in, kissed back: deep, long kisses that made Steve pant for air, clench his fingers into Bucky’s skin. He guided Bucky to lay down on the bed, stripped his clothes off slowly, finally having the proper light to look him over for the first time since Azzano. 

But there was nothing; not one new scar, not even a bruise despite the grueling mission they had just finished. The skin was smooth and clear. Steve ran his hands down Bucky’s torso, confused, but then Bucky was grabbing his arms and flipping him over with all his strength.

“Let me see you,” he said with a smirk, scrabbling at Steve’s clothes. “I wanna know what Captain America looks like in the flesh”.

And then Steve could only lay there and gasp as Bucky relearned his new body, as he tongued at Steve’s nipples until they hardened, as he laughed brightly at Steve’s hairless chest. It had been so long since Bucky had even _smiled_ , and it made Steve’s heart trip.

Then tight, wet heat surrounded his cock, and Steve’s back arched as he let out a moan. Bucky made a noise in return, his dark hair moving in Steve’s lap. This, at least, was familiar, as Steve reached down to stroke his fingers through that soft hair. This was home.

Afterwards Bucky kept shivering, trembles wracking his frame over and over as Steve slid down, sucked him into the heat of his mouth in return. Bucky's eyes were dark and wide, his fingers clenching in the sheets as if he couldn’t believe Steve would still do this for him. As if something had changed. Steve rubbed his hands against Bucky’s warm thighs, tonguing the head of Bucky’s cock until his eyes slammed shut, his legs twitching restlessly like they used to — telling Bucky that those insecurities were ridiculous, that Steve wasn’t going anywhere.

And as Bucky slept soundly next to him, curled up on his side like he was cradling an imaginary rifle, Steve saw an angle. Silently he grabbed a sheet of paper and a book from the floor, took the pencil he had been signing reports with only hours before. But he was rusty, having not sketched for such a long time: he kept having to glance at Bucky’s face, over and over, the lines feeling wrong as he put them down. It wasn’t coming as naturally as it used to, his large fingers now feeling clumsy and too inadequate to draw Bucky’s intricate features. His expression wasn’t right, the pencil strokes too harsh, the lines of his body too tense for sleep.

Steve made a small noise of frustration and that was all it took; Bucky’s eyes snapped open. He looked up at Steve with a calculating expression, as if the enemy was just down the hall and he was awaiting instructions. Steve shifted the paper to his right knee, reached to smooth Bucky’s hair off his face.

“You’re alright” he said. He rubbed his thumb against Bucky's temple. “I was just sketching”.

It took a tense moment, but finally Bucky smiled, pushed himself up to rest against the headboard. “Still trying to capture my utter perfection?” he grinned. 

When he looked down at the portrait, though, Bucky shut down, his eyes narrowing and his mouth snapping shut. Steve watched as Bucky’s eyes traced the erased lines and harsh smudges that made up the image. Before Steve could react, Bucky had reached out and ripped the page in half, crumpling it in his fist.

“Don’t need that in the history books,” Bucky muttered as he rolled out of bed. The click of the bathroom lock sounded loud in the large room.

### Modern Day

This Bucky was different, in every single way. He smelled differently and dressed differently (but didn’t Steve, too?), with longer hair and a metal arm. He had a different perspective on things that he previously would have scoffed at. When he smiled, which was rare, it was evenly spread across his face, not expanding from a crook in one corner. For the first time, this was a Bucky that Steve had to look at before speaking to, unsure if the presence in the room was actually him.

But Bucky was quick to point out that Steve had changed, too, and it didn’t matter. They both still had the memories of who they once were, were both willing to learn each other again, regardless of how long it would take them. _That_ was what mattered — their commitment to each other. It was what Steve had to remind himself every time Bucky had a bad day, a bad week. When he drew inward and almost disappeared, his expression flat as he tensed away from Steve. He only wanted to spend time with Natasha in those days, and that caused Steve to withdraw, too, to relapse into someone who was shy, afraid of bothering people with their presence. They were both broken, and they just needed time.

It was Sam who gifted Steve the sketchbook and pencil set, rubbing at his neck with slight embarrassment.

“Museums fight over Steve Rogers pieces,” he had said. At Steve’s horrified expression, Sam added “They’re mostly snatched up by private collectors, so not many reach the public eye. You could probably ask for them back — I’m sure Tony owns a few.” Then he’d gestured at the book. ”I don’t want to overstep, but I figured if it’s something that helped you before…”

And Sam had been right. It was so easy, after that, for Steve to find his rhythm. The art of drawing came back with a vengeance. First there were angry pieces, Steve's hand striking the paper so hard that the graphite snapped on the page. Then there were cartoonish pieces that held nostalgia in every line and shadow. One afternoon he helped Sam sketch out the design of his new costume, laughing hysterically as they kept adding to it, making it more and more ridiculous. Tony had nearly pulled his hair out when he thought that was what Sam actually wanted, pleaded with him to take a sleeker, more modern design. And Steve had drawn that, too, tears in his eyes as he wheezed with laughter: Iron Man fighting Sam’s Lego-turned-Transformer monstrosity, and _losing_. Tony was on the verge of a breakdown when Bruce had finally rifled through the sketches and pulled out Sam’s real Falcon idea, basic aesthetic designs that they had perfected days before. 

Drawing brought back interest and fun, an odd sense of purpose for Steve beyond Captain America.

Realism, though… realistic drawings were much harder to re-learn. They always ended up tinged with melancholia, so much that Steve felt like crying whenever he looked at them; he’d destroy them in haste, not wanting the memory. When he tried to go back to the basics (even went so far as to buy a fruit basket in an artistic cliche), the resulting sketch looked flat and boring, making his own eyes glaze over.

Bucky had arrived home during that sketch, right as Steve had started outlining the fruit bowl and bananas. He had frozen by the door, taking in the sight of Steve sitting at the table, the sketchbook in his hands.

“You still draw?” he had asked, his face unreadable.

Steve had shrugged, tried to appear casual. “Sometimes,” he said. “Mostly doodles. I could-“

But Bucky had shook his head, a silent but emphatic No.

So Steve didn’t even try. The Rule was strictly enforced in his own mind.

But his hands twitched as he watched Bucky, sometimes, fighting the urge to draw his long hair and rough stubble, relearn with the pencil what he had with his hands. That was strictly off limits, and he was desperate to respect Bucky’s privacy. Yet sometimes Steve caught himself sketching the plates of Bucky’s metal arm, the way Bucky strapped his weaponry to his pants, or his hand as he twirled a knife, over and over. None of Bucky’s features, but simply the small items that defined him, that made Bucky just as interesting and beautiful as he ever was.

Steve kept the sketches hidden in his book, but whenever he reopened it to sketch again, they were often gone. On those days, Steve swore he could smell the faint scent of a lit match in the apartment, but there was never any evidence.

~~~~

They lazed together on the bed in the quiet afterglow: Bucky sprawled diagonally, his legs tucked under Steve’s knees, his eyes closed as he dozed in the morning sunlight. Tendrils of hair clung to his sweaty face, and even though he wasn’t smiling, Steve knew he was content. It was a good day.

Steve leaned over Bucky to kiss his face, grinned as Bucky reached up to grab his head with the metal arm, locking the plates down, trying to keep him there.

“I gotta get a cloth,” Steve murmured against his mouth. “You’re gonna stick to the sheets in a minute”.

“Mm, don’t care,” Bucky said, nosing his way down to Steve’s neck. Steve laughed as Bucky nuzzled at the marks he had left there; he was a little obsessed with leaving them now that he could. They would disappear within the hour, but Steve wished they would last longer, thoroughly enjoying how Bucky’s eyes darkened whenever he saw them.

Steve shivered as Bucky mouthed under his jaw, left another bite that caused heat to pool in Steve’s stomach. But the situation was getting away from him, so he reached down and took Bucky in hand, stroking solidly. Bucky jerked away, eyes wide, still oversensitive, and Steve used the moment to roll off the bed.

“Punk!”

“Jerk,” Steve called over his shoulder.

Bucky took the washcloth from him when he returned, preferring to do it himself, now. Then he sprawled back down on the covers, his hand gently cupping Steve’s ankle where Steve was sitting crisscross by the headboard. He smiled up at Steve, the expression soft, his body lax -- a rarity, these days. The morning sunshine emphasized the golden undertones in his hair, his smooth skin, and made his eyes dance between blue and green and grey. It reflected brightly off the metal arm, softening its features, making it look more like a true part of Bucky rather than just a weapon.

The urge to draw him bubbled up fierce in Steve. He clenched his hands into fists and looked away, trying not to see the angles, the start. To draw Bucky in this moment would be an invasion at best, practically an assault at worst.

But no matter how much they had changed, or how much time had kept them apart, Bucky could always read that look. It was like the urge was ingrained in him as much as it was in Steve. Steve felt Bucky squeeze at his ankle, and he turned back to meet his eyes.

“It’s okay,” Bucky said. “You can, if you want.”

Steve's mouth fell open in shock. He started to argue, but Bucky only shrugged. “I don’t want to keep things from each other. The world does enough of that”.

Their eyes met for a long moment, Steve trying to ask if Bucky was sure. It look longer to read him, now, and Steve could only half-guess the answer, but Bucky trusted him. That much Steve knew. So he slowly stood, collected his sketchbook and pencils from the couch. He sat again on the bed, moving at a glacial pace so Bucky could stop him or change his mind. But Bucky continued to lay there, sprawled across the sheets, blinking lazily up at Steve. No fear. No anger. Just Bucky.

Steve found the perfect starting point and began, laying down smooth lines across the paper. It was as easy as it had ever been, the style coming back to Steve without thought or effort. Like drawing Bucky was something he was always meant to do. As if moments like these were the heart of who they were together.

It took over an hour, but Bucky was patient, his eyes narrowed to slits as he basked in the warm light.

When he was finished, Steve closed his eyes, cracked his knuckles. Bucky seemed to know that it wasn’t just a break; he sat up, then, and curled around Steve to look. Fighting a new urge to run away, Steve took a slow, deep breath before opening his eyes.

It was the most perfect sketch of Bucky that Steve had ever done: open and honest, with full sunlight streaming through the window. Bucky was unashamed, his scars in clear view, the metal arm dominating his right side. But his lips were relaxed and parted, his body long and lean all the way down to his thighs, not fading away on the page. His hair curled around his face, framing the slightest sparkle in his half-closed eyes. 

A sharp ache pulsed in Steve’s chest. This was His Bucky, always had been. But it was one he could never keep for more than a moment.

“I’ll tear it up in a second,” Steve said softly. “I just… I had to show you”.

He turned to face Bucky, terrified of what emotion he’d see, but Bucky only looked curious. Ever so slowly, Bucky traced the sketch with his flesh fingers, feeling the dips in the paper and the shine of the lead. Nothing was said, and Steve’s heart continue to race.

Then, with the metal hand pressed to Steve’s thigh in silent reassurance, Bucky slid off the bed and wandered to the closet. Steve watched as Bucky rifled deep to the back corner, coming out with a few pieces of paper in his hand. He dropped them on Steve’s lap before sitting back on the bed. Steve could feel eyes burning into him as he looked down.

They were the sketches that had gone missing: a few of the metal arm, Bucky’s silhouette, one with Bucky’s hand on a gun. Random moments of time that Steve had drawn, and then Bucky had silently destroyed.

Except apparently not.

“You saved them,” Steve said, flipping through the sketches. His heartbeat slowed as something warm slowly crept through his chest like molasses.

Bucky tucked his head against Steve’s shoulder, reached under the other drawings to pull out the portrait. He cradled it on his lap, thumbed at the edge of the page.

“Sometimes I need to be reminded," he said. 

Steve rested his cheek against Bucky's head, looked again at the sketches. That was something he understood completely.

~~~~

_There are no rules in art, only creativity - Edna Stewart_

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: This author knows absolutely nothing about drawing or art, but she tried.


End file.
